


Full Circle

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bad Parenting, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Childbirth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, French Kissing, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Harm to Children, Homosexuality, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Library Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mutilation, Parenthood, Rejection, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Re-adjusting to life with Sherlock after his fall isn't easy.<br/>Especially when you're still grieving for your late wife and your flatmate kisses you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grey Life of John Watson

“Jesus, Sherlock!”

Sherlock didn’t even bother to look up from his microscope.

“We did have rules, you know,” John said. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen holding what used to be his bathrobe.

“I’ll buy you another one,” Sherlock said.

“Not the point,” John growled. He stalked to the dustbin and pitched the scorched material in with an irritated grunt.

John stared at the back of Sherlock’s head and imagined driving a butterknife slowly into the soft space under his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through his nose for a few seconds. It had been three years. Two long years of anger, want, need, misery, and grief… and then Mary came and the world seemed a bit brighter. And then Mary was gone again; and the anger, want, need, misery and grief came back. Until one day…

Sherlock appeared as in a dream. He stood there on the stoop of 221B Baker Street looking waif thin, his face more pale than usual. You could have knocked John over with a feather. John has no clear recollection of what happened. Only a Swiss cheese memory exists of that moment in time. He remembered running toward Sherlock. He remembered hurting his hand, but how was a mystery until he was helping sterilize Sherlock’s cuts later on. He remembered Mrs. Hudson’s screams and someone pulling him up and off of Sherlock. He doesn’t remember what he said. There was only anger, want, need, misery, and grief.

Yet curiously, there was no sense of relief.

John always thought that if by some miracle Sherlock returned to his life (and with Sherlock there was always the possibility of miracles), he would be profoundly relieved to have his best friend back. But that sense of relief never came. That final “welcome home” kind of feeling never happened and at this moment when he stared with murderous intent at the back of Sherlock’s head, he had some idea why.

He never welcomed Sherlock back into his heart.

This thought hit him like a two-tonne lorry. John needed to leave. He grabbed his coat and made for the stairs.

“Bring home some milk,” Sherlock shouted after him, seemingly unconcerned with John’s actual destination.

Out in the streets of London and walking rapidly for the nearest pub, John tried to push back the analysis of this revelation. He needed to get drunk. Good and pissed. 3 o’clock in the afternoon be damned. But the pub was a good ten minute walk despite John’s quick pace, and the thoughts kept nagging. Why didn’t he welcome back Sherlock? Didn’t he beg at his gravestone for him to grant one more miracle? Isn’t Sherlock’s return what he most ardently hoped for?

At the time, it was. Two years of wanting that frustrating genius to return about drove him mad. So he did the only thing he knew. He steeled his heart against all. He reverted back to his military training and let all emotion go. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson all tried to help him through his grief in their way, but ultimately, it took a lovely little blonde to soften his hardened heart.

And Mary was lovely. She was walking out of the clinic as he was walking in. She just moved from Wapping and was as delightful as she could be; schoolteacher, just shy of 5 foot, beautiful blue eyes, amazing cook, even more amazing kisser. She was the “settling down” type his mother always wanted for him. And if John was honest, she’s the type he always wanted for himself. She was easy to understand. She loved him. She loved his scar. She loved his stories about Sherlock. She helped him let Sherlock go.

John reached the pub and sat in a corner with his pint. Not too many people here on a Wednesday in the mid-afternoon, so he watched the cricket match alone and in silence. But pretty soon his mind was not on the bowling skill of the players. Her face swam in the surface of his glass. Why couldn’t she still be here? Where was he to go now that she had gone?

The signs of her departure were subtle. She would get unexplained stomach aches. She would get exhausted and have to lie down. She couldn’t understand it. She would have epic sessions of vomit and then be fine for days. John thought she might be pregnant. John hoped she might be pregnant. The tests they took all came back negative. John’s medical background wouldn’t let things lie, however. The vomiting got more and more frequent; her diet got more and more bland. Pretty soon, she couldn’t hold down much of anything. More tests were taken, but by then it was too late. What was supposed to be simple indigestion, IBS, or even an ulcer turned out to be cancer.

Three months later she was gone.

He had stood at her grave for 4 solid hours willing her to come back. It was all too familiar a scene. He went home and punished himself with drink for missing what should have been a clear diagnosis. Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson were there for him then too. But it was all too much. It was all the same. He had buried two best friends because he couldn’t save either one. He was too ill-equipped as a soldier to protect one, and too blind as a doctor to protect the other. He was cut to the quick.

What was he then? He wasn’t a good enough soldier. And now he wasn’t a good enough doctor. Where did that leave John Watson? What was he, if not what he trained to be?

The pint drained, John stood and walked back to 221B. It has started a light drizzle and he turned up his collar. He felt like London looked, sopping wet and good for nothing.

Climbing the stairs he didn’t hear Sherlock at all. He wondered vaguely if his flat mate had scarpered off on one of his spur-of-the-moment personal investigations of the city. Damn. He forgot the milk. Shrugging off his coat, he turned to see Sherlock quietly staring at him from the kitchen. 

“Oh,” said John. “You’re home. I thought you might have gone out.”

“I was waiting for you to get back,” said Sherlock, his voice carefully quiet. John could see those piercing eyes sweeping over his face, his clothes, his shoes. He’s deducing me again, John thought.

“I forgot the milk,” John said wearily. “Sue me.”

“It’s not that, John. Only…,” said Sherlock. It was uncharacteristic of him not to finish a sentence. There was a subtle shift behind his blue eyes.

That shift did not go unnoticed. “What is it, Sherlock?” said John.

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking for all the world like he was about to decide something important. Turns out, that’s exactly what he’d done. In two long strides, he was nose to nose with John looking right into the soldier’s eyes. The sudden proximity didn’t really bother John. He was used to Sherlock’s decided disregard for personal space. However, the doctor in John noticed how drawn his face was. Sherlock hadn’t eaten in about a day and a half. Something would have to be done about that.

“John,” began Sherlock. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” said John, disbelieving. Sherlock NEVER apologized for anything.

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock again, breaking all precedent twice now.

“What are you apologizing for? You said you’d buy me a new robe. I’m not even angry about that anymore,” said John.

“No,” said Sherlock, shaking his head. “I’m apologizing for this.” And Sherlock leaned down and kissed John softly on the mouth. It was a chaste, dry kiss, but warm and pleasant, and John was shocked at first, but by the end of the brief encounter had found that he’d closed his eyes.

“I should have done that months ago,” Sherlock explained. “I just wanted to give you time to become accustomed to the fact that I was very much alive. I wanted us to get back to our old life together before I really let you know how much I missed you. Kissing you was the most expedient way of expressing all I’ve felt. You know how bad I am with emotions, especially sentiment.”

John let Sherlock’s words wash over him before he picked them apart for actual comprehension. “You missed me?” was all he could think to say.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Really, John. You do remember how much I hate repeating myself.” And with that, Sherlock stalked off to his room.

John stood alone in the living room for some minutes. Finally, for lack of anything else to do, he sat on the sofa.

Sherlock Holmes missed him. Well, that’s understandable. They had been living together for a year before he took that nosedive off of St. Bart’s roof. They had been on many adventures, had gotten to know one another very well. John even fancied that he was probably the only person who could figure out what Sherlock was thinking at least fifty percent of the time. Of course, Mycroft had him beaten there, but then that was Mycroft Holmes and John was just a mere mortal.

But to miss him enough to want to kiss him?

That Sherlock seemed ambivalent toward sex in general was an understatement. He never dated. He never talked about women – with the exception of THE woman, but that wasn’t sexual. He never looked at porn of any kind unless it was involved in a case somehow. And even then, he regarded it in the same way one would observe lions shagging on telly: clinically, dispassionately, and purely scientifically. So the kiss he received couldn’t have possibly been meant as a come-on. Could it?

It was a nice kiss. Not like Mary’s. Hers were sweet and sexy and kindness itself. She kissed John with all her soul. Especially at the end. She was so scared at the end. Not for herself. She wasn’t like that. She was scared for John. She didn’t want to leave him behind.

As she lay there in their bed she told him, “I worry about you, John. You’ll be on your own soon enough and it breaks my heart.”

John didn’t have words for her. He just held her and hushed her to sleep, gently rocking her body until he felt her relax. She was so small in his arms, so delicate under his hands; all he could do after she had drifted off into a morphine-induced sleep was cry softly into her hair. He missed her even before she left him.

It wasn’t fair.

It just wasn’t fair.

John sat on the sofa at 221B Baker Street and felt cheated.


	2. Truth or Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells John the truth.
> 
> John must do the same.

John awoke to the sound of Sherlock's violin at 2am. Three years ago he never thought he'd hear that sound again. He found he missed it more than he could say.

He lay there staring at the ceiling, listening. Sherlock was making something up. At least, it wasn't something John recognized hearing him play before. It was sad and a bit sweet. It ended rapturously with a full bowing, seeming to overflow with love and tenderness. It was not unusual for Sherlock to be more expressive with his violin than he was with words. It was his emotive medium. The violin's strains evoked thoughts of the kiss Sherlock gave him yesterday. Perhaps that's what Sherlock was thinking about.

The kiss was done suddenly. No real preamble. Typical Sherlock: action first and explanation later for those too slow to grasp his reasoning for the action. 

The violin stopped and in the silence that followed, John could hear Sherlock's soft movements in the living room downstairs. He half wanted Sherlock up in his room with him. John hadn't felt this completely alone since losing Mary. Before that, this feeling came when he lost Sherlock. And again when he was in that pathetic bedsit before he met either one of them. John shook away those memories and rolled on his side. That way lies madness, John thought.

The door of John's bedroom opened a crack and a thin shaft of soft light shone through.

"Sherlock?"

"John," said Sherlock softly. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Why?" asked John. It wasn't like Sherlock to be so obviously concerned, but John was rather significant in his life once again. Or so Sherlock said when he kissed him. Still, it was an unusual and curious thing.

"I can't be concerned for my flatmate?" Sherlock asked, opening the door wider. "Considering that you sat in the living room unmoving for several hours after that kiss I gave you, I thought that you would want to talk... or something." And here, Sherlock made a vague circular motion with his hand. He was trying to be nonchalant, but John knew from the music that the kiss meant much more than Sherlock was letting on.

He strode into the room, all angles and smooth lines, his blue dressing gown billowing out behind him. In the soft light, his face took on an ethereal pallor. He sat gently on the edge of John's bed and waited. John could feel his eyes scanning John's face, searching, always searching, for answers to every question in the world. John stared right back. Most times Sherlock's face was unfathomable, as if Sherlock subconsciously suspected everyone else in the world as capable of reaching inside him and tearing him down just as he usually did to everyone else. Everyone always projected their own sins on the rest of humanity, John thought. It was what was wrong with Harry. She always thought people capable of hurting her because she herself was capable of much the same to others.

John decided that compassion was the correct course with Sherlock. But he had to tread carefully. He didn't want his compassion to bleed over into pity. Sherlock would pick up on that in a heartbeat and would be devastated. He wouldn't say anything, but John knew how delicate his friend was with emotions.

"I liked it," John said simply.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. "You did?" he said. "I mean, I received no obvious resistance, but as adamant as you are about your heterosexuality, I never expected you to make such an admission. You do surprise me, Doctor Watson." And he favored John with a rare wide grin.

His happiness was genuine and John was flattered. He took a risk and said impulsively, "Would you like to kiss me again, Sherlock?"

John felt his loneliness press his chest from the inside out. He hadn't meant to make a pass at Sherlock so much as he was just looking for an outlet for the feelings of abject grief he'd been experiencing. He hated how he felt a vague nothing for Sherlock. He hated just going through the motions of living with the mad genius. He hated not living his life. He wanted to feel something, punch something, kiss someone. He wanted to kiss Sherlock. He wanted to lose himself in his surprising warm softness, to feel the man's skin under his hands, to feel the press of his body against John's chest. He wanted to feel something else, something other.

John's eyes must have contained a hint of what he was thinking because without another word, Sherlock leaned in gently and brushed his lips against John's.

The thing John noticed first was the slight scratch of their stubbled skin as they moved together. This was decidedly NOT Mary. And John was glad of it. He cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and moved his lips apart, his tongue asking for access to the heat of Sherlock's mouth. Access was granted with a low moan from the genius detective.

The taste of Sherlock was heaven itself. Soft and warm mixed with tea and a taste that was pure Sherlock. John's left hand slipped behind Sherlock's head to grasp at the curls at the base of his skull, increasing the pressure of the kiss automatically. His right travelled down Sherlock's chest and wrapped around his back. Their tongues moved together velvet soft, gently exploring, not wanting to be too eager. A low moan escaped from John and with it, an instant pang of passion. It felt exhilarating. Freeing. For the first time in a long time, John didn't think about the past or the future. His entire universe was in that kiss. His world was wrapped around the whipcord-muscled torso of the detective in his arms. It was heat and desire and wet and lust and... and... and...

They finally broke the kiss and panted into each other's mouths. Their eyes met and John knew that it couldn't end there. The want was echoed in Sherlock's eyes and John stroked his dark curls soothingly and gave Sherlock a slight nod. Sherlock stripped off his dressing gown and climbed in bed with John. They slid down under the sheets and lay on their sides looking into each other's eyes. No words needed to be spoken. Their hands moved over one another, exploring while their eyes remained locked. John felt heat travel from his belly to his groin as Sherlock’s hands caused ripples of want from deep inside him.

John kissed Sherlock softly, savoring the taste of him, enjoying the feel of his body heat beneath his bed clothes. Soon though, the clothes were just in the way. They came off as it was necessary to gain access to where they needed to kiss, lick, suck, and stroke each other. And for a long while there was just the taste of salt on skin, fingertips leaving trails of fire between them, beads of sweat, and panting breath. Low moans and grunts were all the communication that they needed at this point. Sherlock straddled John’s thigh and rolled him over onto his back.

John found himself watching Sherlock with abject fascination as the detective moved over him, kissing here and there, recording all the places that made John shiver, his breath catching in surprise at each new discovery and each old forgotten pleasure center. Sherlock treated John like the most delicate of objects, all his focus concentrated on the blonde writhing beneath him. John wasn't sure how Sherlock knew that he needed this, but then, John was never entirely sure how Sherlock knew anything.

When they had completely disrobed, Sherlock hesitated and hovered over John, his cock heavy and dripping pre-cum, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his mouth just out of John's reach. John resented him for stopping and gave a harsh grunt of frustration and displeasure. Then John saw Sherlock's eyes.

The detective's eyes were probably the most arresting of his features and it took John many furtive looks and subtle moments throughout their time together in order for him to realize that they weren't exactly ice blue. They contained gold, amber, green, blue and black. They reminded him of cosmic nebulae. Usually they were dispassionate. Usually those eyes were busy being analytical, clinical, and cold -- and yet, staring into them now, at this moment of their passion together, John felt the universe tilt. John was prepared to go the distance with this man in this bed because he trusted him and he was sick of feeling empty. But it was in this moment that John realized that Sherlock was in this bed because he needed John… because he was in love with John.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson.

John swallowed past a lump in his throat. He nuzzled his face up gently toward Sherlock never letting his eyes waver from Sherlock's. Their lips brushed. Sherlock was lost, sad, hopeful, pleading, and passionate -- all without saying a word. He needed John. He needed to be able to trust him completely with the most intimate part of himself. Not on the physical plane. The physical was all hormones and chemical reactions; no, this was much more profound for him. The look in Sherlock’s eyes told John that he needed John to love him back.

John had to tell Sherlock the truth now, or lose his best friend forever.


	3. Past Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see a glimpse of Sherlock's past... and a glimpse of his future with John.

Being considered the class freak was old hat by the time Sherlock went to Uni. His dispassionate breakdown of all his fellow students gained him a reputation as someone no one the guys wanted to know. And it was fine by Sherlock. He was used to being on his own. Besides, his classmates were boring, boring, boring. They were all so completely pedestrian and ordinary. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll – with the occasional bout of study thrown in -- were all they were about. It was all too simple and Sherlock could see through each and every one of them.

He had no interest in what the guys were interested in. And the females were even worse.

Twice a year, at least, he was tearing down one female or another who thought that he might be secretly brooding about something deeply emotionally damaging and therefore needed “fixing”. They’d leave quickly and in tears most of the time. A small part of Sherlock felt badly about all the crying, but if it helped them stay away from him, all the better. There was really only one woman on campus that he could be around and not be completely annoyed. Her name was Rebecca Stearns.

She worked at the library through the student work program and Sherlock had often seen her re-shelving books, entering in new titles to the catalogue, and basically being the mousy little girl she was. When he saw her staring at him between the book stacks for the ump-teenth time, he thought, here’s another silly female wanting to “fix” the brooding genius. Fantastic. He hoped (for perhaps the first time in his life) that he was wrong about her intentions, but when she took that deep breath, squared her shoulders, and headed in his direction, he knew she was doomed to run off crying.

She was just the type to burst into tears too. Naturally bashful and withdrawn, working at the library offered her a safe, quiet haven where she could be herself and yet completely blend in. It was her natural habitat. Sherlock left her alone most of the time, but when he needed assistance on researching the effects of a certain plant toxin on human tissue, he needed her to help him scrounge the bowels of the library and gather as much data as possible. She was happy to be of use, and Sherlock was happy that she seemed relatively competent. It was a symbiotic relationship; one of the first of its type for Sherlock.

But this day, she had changed her mind. This was not going to be pretty, thought Sherlock.

“Hello,” Rebecca said.

“Hello,” said Sherlock. He didn’t even look up at her eager face.

“What are you working on? Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Not really, no.”

“OK… Well… um… if you need anything, please know I’m here.”

“I was aware of your presence the moment I walked into the building.”

“You were?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “You are the only person who bothers to straighten that front table near the entrance.”

“Oh,” she said, “Of course. You know, I almost forget…”

“Forget what?” asked Sherlock.

“N-nevermind,” she said, “Nothing.”

“Rebecca,” he said, his voice carrying with it a note of warning. He did not like to be played about.

“W-well…,” began the girl, shaking a bit under the scrutiny of those blazing eyes, “I forget sometimes that you’re so… clever. And that you notice everything. And that you can figure out things from other things… the way you do…which is why I like you… but I do forget… and… um… that’s it. I guess…” Rebecca was blushing in thirty-four shades of red at the end of her stammering speech. He always made her so nervous.

With anyone else, Rebecca could hold her own. She wasn’t afraid to argue about late return fines or to take on a rugger twice her size because he was talking too loudly. She didn’t care. She’d tell them all where to go and how to get there. She was strong. She could handle anything. Except Sherlock Holmes. 

He was her kryptonite. One withering look from his god-like face and she was reduced to a babbling teenager. It was disturbing that one human being could hold sway over her emotions like that. It wasn’t right. And there was a part of her that gave a damn about that; the feminist part of her that railed against all male oppression. And there was a part of her that wanted that withering look more than oxygen. It meant that she was holding his attention. It meant that she and she alone was capable of inciting that reaction in him at that exact moment. It felt like power. And she liked that.

She shifted her weight from one foot to another waiting for Sherlock’s response. “Oh,” was all he said and went back to reading his book.

Sherlock thought as much. She would be the kind to love his mind and not his body. But it was all the same in the end. They all wanted a piece of him so that they could change that piece and move on to ‘fixing’ him. Stupid, really. Why are you attracted to someone who is supposedly ‘broken’? It makes no sense. It’s like buying a car that doesn’t work and then ‘fixing it’ by giving it new paint only to find that it still doesn’t run. And they’re always surprised too. Absolutely asinine.

 

~080~

 

A storm broke out on campus. If Sherlock Holmes were a god-fearing man, he might take that as a sign. The telephone call he had received that morning did nothing to him. He barely heard Mycroft telling him that father had died. It was as if someone else were hearing the words. It couldn’t possibly be true anyway. Father knew not to be so inconsiderate. It wasn’t the Holmes way. Mycroft was obviously mistaken. Sherlock packed up his things anyway.

Sebastian asked him why he was packing. Sherlock told him what Mycroft had said. Suddenly, Sebastian was hugging him. “Sorry, mate,” he had said. Why was Sebastian crying? It was not as if it was his father that had a sudden heart attack and dropped over in the garden. It was not as if he had lost a man he barely knew. In fact, Sebastian knew Sherlock’s father less than Sherlock did; which was odd because Sherlock barely knew his father. And yet, here was this sobbing… thing… clinging to him as though he lost his best friend in the world. Then Sebastian had said: “My dad died too…” and it all made sense. Sentiment.

He had time before the car arrived for him. The library was perfect in the rain. Along the back walls, he found his favorite study table unoccupied. This was good. 

Thunder cracked loudly outside and rain pelted the window nearby, but Sherlock barely noticed. There was someone clearing their throat nearby. Sherlock looked up and into the eyes of Rebecca.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked softly.

“What?” said he, startled from his chemistry book, “Surely the librarian can give you something to occupy your time.”

“No,” she said, “something for you, I mean.”

“I’m not working on a project at the moment,” he said, “I’m just wasting time until the car my brother hired gets here.”

“Oh,” said she. He hated her mousy tone under normal circumstances. Today it was especially irritating.

“Look,” he said, his voice raised, “I really don’t want you about, so if you be so kind as to go away…”

“Shh!” she cautioned, “You can’t raise your voice in here.”

Sherlock got up suddenly, throwing down his chemistry book. He grabbed her by the elbow, and headed toward a private study room. He close the door securely behind him and turned on the light. The florescent light flickered. The bulb wanted changing. No matter. Here he could speak to her, his volume inconsequential.

“Why are you like this?” he asked, practically assaulting her with the words. She looked at him stupidly confused and fearful. “You have friends, I presume?” He waited for her to answer him. No answer came. She was too shocked by his sudden behavior. He tried another tack. He scrutinized her under the flickering light. It was enough. He took a deep breath, stared daggers into her eyes and let loose:

“You’re the youngest child of an older couple. They didn’t have the energy to play with you when you were a child and you were a bright child, so you needed distraction. They bought you books. You soaked them up like a sponge, but no one likes a bookworm at school. You wanted to be popular and pretty but never thought yourself so. Maybe because of lack of encouragement from home, but more probably because of lack of friends in general, so, no ego-boost for you.

“But you were clever in science. I know that about you just from working with you. You’re neat, exacting. You’re that way by nature and all the kids at school knew it. You learned to keep track of what was yours because those same kids would nick your things when you weren’t looking, just to drive you mad. Of course it didn’t help that you moved around a lot when you were a kid, your parents tossing out anything that ever meant anything to you because it would just be one more thing to pack. You couldn’t have anything of your own, ever.

"You want to feel useful too; a need that probably stems from your home life. Being that you had older parents, you had to do what you could to help them out. They trained you for it. They knew that they would need a younger companion as they got into their dotage and raised you to be kind and obedient, but mostly obedient. You were never allowed to do anything they didn’t approve of. As a result, you don’t live on campus. You go home to your… mother, is it? Every night. You care for her, prepare her meals, wipe her chin, wipe her arse, and all in the name of family. All because you’re the good obedient dog they raised you to be. Your father’s deceased. That’s why you’re here. You heard about my father and now you want to help me through what you imagine is my grief. 

“Well, you can bloody well piss off. I don’t need you, Rebecca," Sherlock said, quickly closing the space between them, "I don’t need some simpering, whimpering, clingy female weeping in my ear about lost relatives, you sentimental fool. It’s all twaddle in the end. It means nothing. People die. It’s what they do. It happens and you can’t help it. I can accept that. It’s not my fault that you can’t. You have no idea who I am. You have no idea who my father… was,” here, Sherlock’s voice broke and was straining. It humiliated him, but he pressed on relentlessly. It felt good to strike out at someone. Anyone. Rebecca just happened to be in the way. "You're a sentimentalist fool, Rebecca. And you can go to hell."

Rebecca saw the tears fill his eyes and even though he was saying the most hateful things, she had to do what she could to help him. Maybe he was right: maybe she was an obedient dog, trained to care for others, but that didn’t make her a bad person. It made her into a woman who feels things. Rebecca felt everything. Always. She described herself as hyper-empathetic. She felt everyone’s joy, everyone’s pain. And the pain rolling off of Sherlock was practically unbearable. She did the only thing she could think of as she saw that lone tear track down that beautiful face: She kissed him.

What followed was a blur to both of them. There was little noise: the shuffling of clothing, the wet, sucking of kisses exchanged, the odd moan or grunt. Rebecca felt the cold wall at her back as Sherlock pushed into her. It hurt, but she wanted it. She wanted him like that. In the back of her mind she knew that she was just a tool for him to use, like a pressure release valve on a boiler that would prevent it from exploding. She allowed herself to be used so he could feel something other than frustration. She was hoping that he would see her as more afterward. She wanted him to fall in love with her for this. She wanted him to see that this was her sacrifice because she loved him so very much.

Her kiss opened up the dam that held back Sherlock’s emotions. He opened his trousers, pulled down her knickers from beneath her skirt and thrust into her as she gasped against the wall. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought about the next day and what she would say. Too complicated. He’d deal with that later. He pushed that thought away and rode out the rest of the experience. He didn’t quite understand what was happening, but then, between her first kiss and the orgasm, his brain had shut down completely. It was nice not to think about anything for a bit. Relaxing.

Orgasm over, they both caught their breath and fixed their clothing. Sherlock looked at his watch and opened the door. “Rebecca,” he said, nodding at her cordially. She looked up at him. He was slightly rumpled, but otherwise looked completely unaffected by what happened. He looked flawless. It tore her to pieces.

The door closed and he was gone. Rebecca sank to the floor and cried softly, not knowing what to feel.

When Sherlock returned to campus the next week, Rebecca was gone. He gave her disappearance about five minutes cogitation, decided there was no foul play involved, and went to class. What she did with her life was none of his business.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock looked down at John. They were naked and this was the first time in a long time he had trusted anyone like this. It was the first time that he had ached with missing someone. John meant that much to him. It was unfathomable, unquantifiable. He wanted this man to love him so very much, even his pride wouldn’t hold him back.

Is that was love is? When even your pride won’t prevent you from becoming a fool? Rebecca was a fool. But had she pride? Sherlock didn’t think so. She couldn’t have had any pride if she let him fuck her without some objection. But then, some women just liked sex. Rebecca hadn’t struck him as the type, but one could never be completely certain, especially at that age.

John was different though. He had pride and a great deal of it. He was always the one standing up for himself. Not like Rebecca… or Molly. He would tell Sherlock if he was being brilliant or if he was being an arse. He would be honest with him. It was refreshing. It was nice; to have someone so loyal and yet who was such a challenge, who didn’t cave in every second about everything. John was good. John was solid. Sherlock needed John.

And as he hovered above this man, cock heavy and dripping, he stared into John’s eyes and silently begged him for the truth. Sherlock couldn’t read his eyes in the dim light. He wanted to know what was in John’s heart. He wanted to hear him say that he loved him. He wanted John’s truth.

John brushed a kiss against his lips and Sherlock thought it was the touch of an angel, a blessing… permission. But there was something else… Sherlock dipped his head slowly toward John, anticipating the taste of his mouth, the feel of his warm tongue against his own. He knew this was right. He wanted this. They both did, Sherlock knew it. 

Suddenly, Sherlock was hyper-aware of what he felt: the soft weight of the duvet on top of his skin, John’s hands on his hips holding him gently, caressingly. He could feel the throbbing in his hard cock and the heat coming off of John’s erection mere inches below him. It was too fucking perfect. But there was something else…

John’s breath was soft on his face when John said: “Sherlock… stop.”


	4. Murderer's Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serial killer is a perfect distraction when your best friend doesn't want to love you.
> 
> Isn't it?

“Sherlock… stop.”

Sherlock’s breath caught. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, but then John Watson could surprise him at times.

“What is it, John,” asked Sherlock, not daring to move.

“I can’t do this,” he said mournfully, “I’m sorry.” Sherlock needed him to love him and John couldn’t at the moment. He was too numb inside. He couldn’t feel anything but sorrow over this whole situation. He wanted to explain it all to Sherlock. He wanted to make him see how he just can’t get past the fact that he’s an inadequate soldier and a failed doctor and how these two things leave him with nothing. He wanted to tell Sherlock all of it, but the detective got a strange clinical look on his face. His eyes held a flicker of profound hurt for a moment and then he could see Sherlock’s soul shut down. He became the machine that John always loathed.

Sherlock got up, picked up his clothes and left the room.

“Sherlock,” said John as the door to his bedroom closed, “please let me explain.”

Sherlock stopped on the landing just outside John’s bedroom for only a moment before descending the stairs. In that moment, he managed to take one breath, square his shoulders, shut off his heart, wipe a tear from his face, and swallow past the lump in his throat. Fuck it. Fuck him. John Watson didn’t want him like that, fine. He could live with it. Somehow.

He put his clothes back on in the sitting room. John never left his bedroom. He wanted to explain but not enough to get up out of bed and seek Sherlock out. Interesting. Interesting and soul-crushing. Sherlock looked out onto the street and heaved a sigh. Peace. It was hateful.

Sherlock never needed a case more in his entire life. Anything to stop feeling like a fool.

 

~080~

 

“Sherlock!” said Mrs. Hudson. She had that worried tone in her voice. Sherlock stopped reading the paper and looked up to see her with a yellow envelope in her hands. “I found this on the back stoop outside my door. I probably shouldn’t have touched it, only I thought it was one of your homeless people trying to reach you. But I’ve just realized that they really don’t do this sort of thing. Here.”

She set the flat manila envelope among the breakfast things and John looked over at Sherlock with a question in his eyes. “Did you see who left it?” asked John.

“No, dear,” she said, wringing her hands. “I hope it’s not bad news.”

Sherlock got out a pair of latex gloves and took up the envelope carefully. He examined it minutely; nothing of note about it. Standard paper envelope, seal glue intact. No creases or smudges. Printing on the front was standard black ink on mailing label. The label read simply: ‘Sherlock Holmes’. Sherlock rose and took his jackknife from the mantle. Carefully, he sliced the top open, being careful not to cut the contents. He peeked inside.

“Mrs. Hudson,” began Sherlock, “I’m afraid it is rather bad news. Please be so kind as to go downstairs and call DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

As soon as Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock looked at John with a glint in his eyes and said: “It’s Christmas!”

 

~080~

 

“Sixteen photographs depicting decapitation and dismemberment,” said Lestrade. “What fresh hell is this?”

“I don’t know, detective inspector,” said Sherlock, staring down at all sixteen full color pictures with his clinical eye. Each one depicted several dismembered body parts to include hands and feet with the bones bursting through the tissue, entrails stretched out and splayed open to display the contents, eyes sliced in half, arms with the muscles stripped out like dying flowers, and heads with the faces peeled off in strips like a macabre basket weave pattern. “But if I had to guess… and I never do… I’d say that we have a serial killer on our hands. One that has a bit of a medical background too. What do you think, doctor?” Sherlock didn’t look up at John, but that’s who he was directing his question to.

John pulled himself off the wall where he was leaning, cleared his throat and looked at the pictures properly, examining each with gloved hands. “Clean cuts, professionally done, yes. Easy to see that here at this shoulder. And again at this ankle, where the upper ankle was separated carefully. The retinaculum at the wrist and ankles show that a very sharp blade was used. Only…”

“Only what?” said Lestrade.

John knitted his brows and looked from the wrist picture to the ankle picture again. “Only,” he began again, “I don’t think that these two pictures are from the same person.”

“What?” said Lestrade. Sherlock smirked. He had come to that conclusion an hour ago.

“There’s more than one dead person here, detective inspector. I’m certain of it,” said John, "Like Sherlock said: a serial killer."

“Fantastic,” said Lestrade.

“And one that knows who I am,” said Sherlock quietly.

“But Moriarty’s dead,” said John. Sherlock hummed his assent to that observation and paced around the conference table where the pictures created a gruesome centerpiece.

“And this person is either stupid or self-destructive,” said Sherlock.

“How do you know?” said Lestrade.

“Have your people examine the glue on the envelope. I need to know if it was saliva or water that sealed it. If it’s self-adhesive, then we’ll have to go without the safety net,” said Sherlock.

“They’re working on the envelope now,” said Lestrade, proud that he was one step ahead of the genius. “They should have the results in the next hour. Sit tight.” Lestrade left to go see about the progress of that analysis, leaving the two men alone.

“What are you thinking?” said John after a tense moment of silence.

“I’m thinking that we’ll be headed out toward Battersea in the next hour,” said Sherlock.

“What? Why?” said John, looking closely at the background of all the pictures. Sherlock pointed and offered his magnifying glass.

Ah… there it was. A tiny speck off of the edge of one of the pictures. The body part was sitting on a piece of butcher paper and at the edge of that paper, just off frame, it looked like the tail-end of a cow. Just the tip of a tail, hand-drawn and the back hoof of a cow. So small as to be missed if you weren’t looking directly for it. Borden’s Slaughterhouse had a symbol like that.

“This killer was precise, neat, cautious,” said Sherlock. “He wouldn’t kill so many people and leave anything to chance. This is either a mistake… or a breadcrumb trail.”

“Knowing the arrogance of a serial killer, I’d place my money on breadcrumbs,” said John.

“Just so, John,” said Sherlock and gave John a cock-eyed grin. It was the first time Sherlock had smiled at him since… 

John took his opportunity. “Listen, Sherlock,” he began.

Sherlock pretended to scrutinize another photograph even closer.

“Look,” said John. This was not going well. He needed to find the words to tell Sherlock what was going through his head when he stopped them last night. He needed to explain. Sherlock may not have explained much on his return, but John was not about to do his best friend that disservice. He couldn’t. “Sherlock, I have to tell you why things happened the way they did last night.”

“No need, John,” said Sherlock, rising to his full height and looking down at his best friend. “It’s easy enough to understand: You simply won’t have me. No further explanation is necessary. Indeed, to continue would only be embarrassing for both of us. Ah! Here’s Lestrade with the results. They came through quickly. That’s good.”

Lestrade came back into the room and handed over the results. “Self-adhesive, I’m afraid, Sherlock. No joy.”

Sherlock looked disapprovingly at the results. “No matter, detective inspector. We’ll just have to chase the bull.”

 

~080~

 

Borden’s Slaughterhouse was a fixture in every 1950’s household. They provided all the meat for the majority of London for more than forty-five years. They closed their doors after the mad cow disease scare spread city-wide panic. The equipment was sold into receivership and the place had been boarded up since the 1990’s -- until that day.

Lestrade and his men created a perimeter, even though Sherlock thought it an unnecessary waste of man-power. The killer was no longer here, of that he was certain. This was simply a message. Another clue on the trail.

Sure enough, the metal tables that held the body parts were all there but there wasn’t a trace of blood. Not a drop. It was eerie. On a table in the corner was another envelope. Same color and shape as the last. Same label. Same name. ‘Sherlock Holmes’, it read. 

Sherlock let Lestrade’s men take it into evidence and headed back to Scotland Yard to see what the contents were. Sherlock had an inkling of what they would find. And he was correct. But he was also incorrect.

There were more pictures in the envelope, and they were just as gruesome as the last. Only problem was: the bodies were five years decomposed.

“They weren’t preserved. There’s still traces of dirt on most of them,” said John. He had told Lestrade’s men how old they appeared to him based on the decomposition. Everyone looked worried except Sherlock. He looked lost in thought.

“We need to identify these bodies,” said Sherlock absently. No one was sure who he was speaking to. It might have been any of them as Sherlock was occupied with staring out the window. “It’s our only clue now as to who is doing this.”

“You’re out, Sherlock,” said Lestrade.

“What?” said Sherlock, his head snapping out of his reverie.

“I said,” said Lestrade, “You’re out. Off this case. And you’re not going back to 221B either. You’re staying put right here.” Sherlock opened his mouth in protest but Lestrade held up a warning finger. “No arguments,” he said.

Sherlock sat in one of the conference room chairs and sulked. “What am I supposed to do here? Trust Anderson and his inept team?” he said. “Anderson couldn’t find his own arse with two hands and a map.”

“That’s enough,” said Lestrade, “You’re staying put and that’s that. Obviously we’re dealing with someone adept at killing people and getting away with it. And for whatever reason, they’re targeting you. I want you to stay put for your own safety and you will… or I’ll find a reason to arrest you and lock you up downstairs. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, detective inspector,” said Sherlock, his face resting in his fist.

“Now…,” said Lestrade, “Why don’t you come over here and really take a good hard look at these pictures again?”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock sits down at the table and brings the first picture under his magnifying glass. Maggots infest the head even though there’s no flesh left to consume. Planted there in the picture. Obvious. No…ridiculous. Why would the killer place maggots on pieces of corpses where they had no business being? What was the connection?

The next picture was a hand, bones broken in the same fashion as the others. It’s true that decomposition doesn’t end at the flesh, that the bones continue to break down, but maggots only stay on corpses that have flesh on them. And there was none on this hand. So why the maggots again? Stupid.

There were maggots in the third picture as well and now it was just getting annoying. Unless… These maggots were deposited on the remains because of where they were buried. How the bodies were interred. If it was a mass grave…

Where in London would there be a mass grave that would go unnoticed?

There… in the fourth picture. What was that? It was out of focus. Looking closely at the picture made it worse. There was no way to tell what it was, but it was important. It was in shadow.

Sherlock took a tack and pinned it to the cork board at the end of the room. He stepped back and closed his eyes, accessing his Mind Palace for clues.

“Wha—“ Lestrade began to ask. John caught his eye and cut him off in mid-question. John knew that look on Sherlock’s face well enough. He held up a finger to Lestrade, gesturing for him to wait. 

The two men looked at the picture, trying to see what Sherlock had seen to understand why it was special, significant. The only thing John could figure was that there seemed to be some sort of a mask in the shadows in the background of the picture, but it was too fuzzy to see. He looked at Lestrade. Lestrade looked at John, giving him a look of slight confusion. John circled a finger around his face and pointed at the picture. Lestrade squinted at it and a look of recognition came across his countenance. He smiled at John. John smiled back.

“You two are the ruddy limit, you know,” said Sherlock, not bothering to open his eyes, but clearly annoyed. “I am trying to think here.”

“Sorry, Sherlock,” said John, “Greg and I will step out.”

“Never mind,” said Sherlock waiving a hand, “Lestrade, you and your men need to go to an old costume shop.”

“Costume shop?” asked Lestrade.

“Yes yes… you know the sort of thing: fancy dress balls, vicar and tart parties… you know. Costumes, man,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah, alright,” said Lestrade. “Where is this costume shop anyway?”

“The only one that’s closed down in the past five years and that is large enough to house a dead body collection would be in Watford. ‘The Happy Cat Costume Emporium’. You’ll find another envelope there,” said Sherlock.

“Brilliant,” said Lestrade and left the room to gather his men and go. Sherlock watched him through the glass wall and allowed himself a small smirk.

 

~080~

 

“You know, we were supposed to stay at Scotland Yard,” said John as they drove along Victoria Street. “Those were Lestrade’s specific orders.”

“I don’t follow orders,” said Sherlock, “Or haven’t you noticed, Captain?” Sherlock turned to him with a cool stare. Sherlock was still angry. He still thought John was rejecting him. John shook his head sadly and looked out the window. Things were so muddled.

He wanted Sherlock to be safe from whatever madman was out there. It was clear that this person, whoever he was, had some kind of vendetta against Sherlock. John had not thought to bring his gun with them when they started this adventure, but once they were home, he was going to stand guard and protect Sherlock. It was the least he could do for his friend.

The cab pulled up at 221B and Sherlock leaped out first, turning quickly to stop John from getting out. “Stay here, I’ll only be a moment.” John sat back, bewildered. What was that mad genius up to now? The cabbie gave him a curious look and John just shrugged his shoulders.

Sherlock was true to his word and was inside the cab inside of two minutes. He gave an address to the cabbie on a slip of paper and settled back against the seat.

Several minutes went by and John knew that they were headed due south, back toward Scotland Yard. When they passed by where Scotland Yard was, John became a tad concerned. When the cab passed over the Thames, he became worried. Where the devil were they going?

It hit John in an instant. Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes. You reckless fool.

“We’re going after the clue you found, aren’t we?” asked John.

“Obviously, John,” said Sherlock. There was anger and annoyance in his tone. More so than usual.

“Sherlock,” said John softly, “Please tell me what has you so angry, because I am a bit concerned—“

“Are you, now?” said Sherlock. He let out a huff of derision.

“Sherlock, please,” said John. “Despite what… happened. I am still your friend, damn it. Whatever’s wrong I want to know. I’m headed where you’re headed, remember? Now tell me what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t like games,” said Sherlock. “Puzzles, yes… those are fine. But this bastard is playing cat and mouse with me and I don’t like it.”

John pursed his lips and thought about this. Sherlock always did prefer plain talk to prevarication. He was never one to beat around the bush. It was always all or nothing with him, in everything. The killer’s game of peek-a-boo was getting to him. Especially since this person seemed so damned clever. But Sherlock spotted something. Something that made it personal. What the hell was it? Surely he’s received death threats before?

John looked down at the seat and saw Sherlock’s hand clenched into a fist. The detective was still looking out the window at London flying by, clearly lost in his own thoughts. Slowly, tenderly, John reached over to touch the back of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock stiffened visibly at first contact, but didn’t turn or say a word.

John grasped Sherlock’s fist with his fingers and traced small circles on the back of his hand with his thumb. Slowly, Sherlock’s fist relaxed and opened enough to allow John to hold his hand properly.

John was happy Sherlock wasn’t arguing. It was a comforting touch, warm and welcoming. There was so much to talk about. John just held Sherlock’s hand and enjoyed what he had in that moment. Sherlock didn’t look at John for the entire ride, which meant that he was still upset, but he was letting John touch him in a caring way, and that was going to have to be enough.

Right now there were bigger things to worry about. Like a serial killer on the loose.


	5. Footprints in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the murderer leaves a bigger breadcrumb trail, Sherlock gains some insight into the murder... and into John.

Sherlock had the driver drop them three blocks from their destination. The property was chained off and abandoned. It was still broad daylight in that little hamlet just outside of Croyden and two strangers in town would stick out like sore thumbs. Two strangers who were seen leaping the chained fences of the Dysart & Dundee Doll factory would most certainly garner them the attention that they didn’t want from the local constabulary.

Sherlock and John circled the block on which the factory was built looking for an access to the building. No doubt that it was privately owned. They didn’t exactly have a warrant. There was a break in the fence near the back loading bays. John and Sherlock slowly made their way through, being sure that no one saw them and went into the building via a broken cellar window.

Sherlock had a grin on his face as he scanned the basement. “What are you grinning for?” whispered John.

“Dust, John,” said Sherlock.

John looked at the room under the bright light of Sherlock’s torch. Patterns of movement that could only be created by people were most evident in the dust on the floors. Footprints as plain as you like greeted them, leading away from where they stood to a door at the far wall as well as straight back along that path. “Well,” said John, “You always did say that dust was eloquent.” He grinned at Sherlock.

They followed the prints, both of them thinking that this was a bit too easy. Tensions were high. Before they opened the door, Sherlock stopped John. Without saying a word, he put a finger to his lips and reached into his coat pocket. He handed John his Browning and a torch. John couldn’t hide the expression of being thrilled and impressed by Sherlock. He fairly beamed at the man. Sherlock blushed and smiled. This was what it was all about for them: the thrill of the chase.

John checked the gun as quietly as he could, snapped off the safety and steeled himself to go through the door first. He and Sherlock crouched low and John reached for the handle. It turned and the door opened with a soft click. John gently pushed the door open the rest of the way and shone his torch in the room, scanning for enemies.

It was a stair well. The stairs that went up from the basement were old and wooden, but the footprints were as clear as day. Why was the killer being so damn obvious? Neither man could shake the feeling that they were both walking into a trap. It was too fucking easy.

The ground floor landing was entirely empty, but they went through every nook and cranny as though the killer could be found carving up another body just around the next corner. The eloquence of dust wasn’t helping them here either. The only traces of movement were weeks old and left by what Sherlock could only assume were a family of rats.

The first floor was different. Very different. It was dust free. Completely. Every baseboard, every columned support, every flat surface was completely devoid of dust. It was an open space, just the supporting columns broke it up every few yards. There were impressions in the wooden flooring where machinery was bolted down and then removed. There were a few wooden tables at the far end of the giant space and Sherlock and John recognized them from the last group of pictures that were found at the slaughterhouse. Here then was the killer’s location for the last photo shoot.

Sherlock sniffed the tables, trying to gather a scent of decomposition. All he smelled was bleach. Still, it showed that the killer was thinking.

“Sherlock,” said John. Sherlock looked up and saw John pointing at a table with his torch.

There was another envelope.

 

~080~

 

“Facial reconstruction will take time, Sherlock,” said Lestrade, “And then the process of facial identification will take a bit longer.” Understandably, Lestrade was very upset to be sent on a wild goosechase while Sherlock and John ran off into who-knows-what danger. So he was talking to Sherlock and John through the sliding hatch window of one of Scotland Yard’s better cells. “I’m afraid I really can’t trust you boys to not hurt yourselves, so you’ll just wait in here for the results, will you? Thanks so much.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated, detective inspector,” said Sherlock as the sliding metal door slammed shut.

“Oh shut it, Sherlock,” said John. He couldn’t believe that he was in a jail cell with Sherlock. He couldn’t believe how truly angry Lestrade had been… no. Strike that. He could absolutely believe how truly angry Lestrade was. I’d be angry as hell too if Sherlock ran right smack dab into a firefight with a mad killer. Oh… wait again: John had already been there with Sherlock. Twice. Well, at least this time there was no vest of Symtex or fake suicide.

Sherlock looked at John with distain. “You’re one to talk,” he said. “Why in heaven’s name did you call Lestrade the moment we found that third envelope?”

“Because he’s the actual police officer working on the actual case that he actually gets paid to work,” said John, exhausted and frustrated.

Sherlock let out a stroppy huff of breath and threw himself the cot John was not occupying. He faced the wall and sulked. John rolled his eyes and tried to think of something for Sherlock to do besides be angry.

“Sherlock,” said John.

“Hmm?” said Sherlock, clearly put out by the latest turn of events.

“What do you think the latest picture means?” he said. "It was just a skull. No background, no clues. Nothing."

Sherlock rolled onto his back and steepled his fingers under his chin. “I don’t know yet,” he said, “But once the results from the facial recognition come back, I’m sure that we’ll know a lot more.”

“So really, all there’s to do is sit and wait,” said John gloomily.

“Not exactly, John,” said Sherlock, “Although, you may do as you like. I, on the other hand, have a few things to think about. Something about that doll factory was ringing a bell. Do me a favor and try not to think of too much of anything while I go to my Mind Palace.”

John sighed and turned over on the cot to face the wall. He was so exhausted, even a prison cot felt like the most comfortable bed in the world. He shut his eyes and let sleep take him while Sherlock worked it all out.

 

~080~

 

…slaughterhouse… mad cow… closed… unemployment up…

 

…slaughterhouse… Borden… Lizzie… 40 whacks… murder… acquitted…

 

…dolls… Dysart & Dundee… Dundee, Scotland…

 

…dolls… childhood… females…dresses…toys…

 

…photographs… decapitations… dismemberments…skulls… I knew him, Horatio… Hamlet… the king’s ghost…

 

…style of picture… common… forensic… crime scene size… evidentiary photographs…

 

…arrangement of subjects in picture…posed… on display… scientific… artistic…

 

…bull’s tail… mask… doll’s face…dust… footprints… no dust… no trail… last picture… skull…

 

…skull… plain white background… no evidence of maggots… sheen on skull…preserved?

 

…taxidermy… preservation… keepsake… why?... sentiment… person was a loved one…

 

...who is the skull?

 

...dolls… Dysart & Dundee… Dysart & Dundee… Dysart & Dundee

 

Oh…

 

~080~

 

“Facial reconstruction done on the skull picture ID her as Mrs. Winifred Sterns, deceased since 2003,” said Lestrade.

“Of course…” murmured Sherlock. Lestrade and John looked at Sherlock expectantly. “But after all this time? Why?”

“Sherlock,” said John, “Please tell us what’s going on inside that head of yours.”

Sherlock looked at the two men as if he had no idea that they’d been standing there. Indeed, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had quite forgotten that they had existed. “I have an idea of where to look next, but we’ll need to be careful – more so than we have been.”

“What do you mean ‘we’, Sherlock?” asked Lestrade, his voice stern. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere.

“Detective inspector,” said Sherlock firmly,” if you want your precious case solved, then you must trust me. The killer is targeting me and it is entirely personal. You must let me go in to the final location alone. It’s the only way.” Here Lestrade opened his mouth to argue and Sherlock pointed at him. “The killer wants to have it out with me. Anyone else shows up, and they will bolt. I promise you this.”

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock continued: “We cannot move until I’ve had a chance to research some things. Bring me all the evidence you have on this case… and I need a laptop.”

“And you’ll not leave the building without informing me?” said Lestrade.

John spoke up: “I’ll let you know at the first sign of flight, Greg.” Lestrade gave John a smile and nodded his head. He left the conference room to gather all that Sherlock needed.

Sherlock strode casually over to John, turning his back to the departing Lestrade and whispered: “Traitor.” John smiled.

Sally Donovan came in and dropped off a laptop on the conference table. She looked at the two of them and sighed. Without a word, she left the room.

“That was unusual,” remarked John, “She usually doesn’t waste an opportunity to slag you off.”

“It’s her cycle,” said Sherlock, as if monitoring a woman’s menstrual cycle were an everyday occurrence. John looked at him with a mixture of confusion, surprise, and mild disgust. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and sat down in one of the conference chairs.

John removed his jacket. Watching Sherlock open the laptop, John balled up his jacket, being careful of the Browning and where the barrel was pointing. He placed his head on the jacket and within two blinks of his eyes, he was fast asleep. Somehow the three hours in the cell weren’t enough when he hadn’t really had any sleep in about thirty-six hours. If he was going to be any use to Sherlock in the field, he’d have to be better rested.

Sherlock waited for the computer to boot and watched John fall asleep effortlessly. He smirked at the thought that this was the same man who promised Lestrade not five minutes ago that he would notify him if Sherlock left the building. But then, John was a light sleeper and the door to the conference room did have a loud squeak to it. Pity.

Sherlock had to admit that he was a bit jealous of John. Sherlock found sleep to be elusive at the best of times. His body eventually would collapse from exhaustion after his brain would drive him there. It must be so relaxing in John’s smaller but admirable brain.

As his fingers glided over the keys in his search, Sherlock considered how he felt about that slumbering man at the end of the table. It wasn’t the time or the place for such musings, but Sherlock did want John in his bed. He wanted the sound of his light snoring there beside him in the dark. It was surprisingly comforting. He could probably sleep with that noise in his ear all night.

John was a puzzle. Why had he refused Sherlock when he was the one who asked him to kiss him the second time? Surely, that meant some kind of interest on his part. But he turned down full-on sex. Was he scared of the prospect of anal sex? No… the man declared war against Afghanistan. Plus he was a doctor. Fear wasn’t an issue. So… what then?

He had been different since Sherlock’s return. That was to be expected. John had chinned him when he saw him again after the three years he was away, but he was still working cases alongside him. So there were hard feelings at first, but he seemed over them. But he was quieter. He wasn’t so much exasperated with Sherlock and his ways as he was… sad… no. Resigned.

There was a certain resignation in everything John did, as though all he went through on a daily basis was somehow a penance, a punishment he must suffer through in order to be forgiven. But forgiven for what? There was nothing to forgive. He wasn’t guilty of anything… unless… well there was Mary’s death. That was real enough.

Mycroft had shown him the wedding pictures. He had told him of Mary’s rapid decline and death. He even told Sherlock that John had purchased the two plots next to Sherlock’s grave. He had placed Mary on the end. John planned someday to be buried between them. Mycroft also informed Sherlock of John’s four hour vigil at her graveside.

“He never shed a tear,” Mycroft had told him. “He just stood there and stared at her grave. Brother, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man more broken. You really should come home.”

It was a sobering memory.

John felt guilty for Mary’s death and at that moment in time felt… what… for Sherlock? Guilt as well? Why? Sherlock supposed it was a mean trick. It was necessary, but cruel. He could get more done if the world believed him dead and if his best friend lent credence to that belief, all the better. John understood by now, surely. It was all for the greater good.

Still… there was the resigned way he went about life now. The kiss that Sherlock gave him, the first one… that sparked something inside John that wasn’t… grieved. He lit up a bit. It was almost like having the old John back, if only for a flicker of a moment. Sherlock missed the old John.

Sherlock sighed and concentrated on the computer screen, but it was no use. His verdigris eyes traced back to the sleeping figure. Sherlock wanted to go to him and snuggle into that oatmeal jumper, feeling John’s warmth, inhaling his scent. The urge was strong, but Sherlock knew that John would object. 

Oh…

He was still grieving. Of course! Stupid. Stupid.

Sherlock knew what grief did to a person…and how they lashed out around others. Rebecca. Whatever happened to her? More than that, why hadn't he deleted her? No matter. Better question: How would someone who was the opposite of Rebecca react to grief? They might internalize everything -- just as John was doing now. And he was the opposite of Rebecca in so many ways.

The opposite of Rebecca…

Dysart & Dundee… dolls.

Oh...

Oh, John Watson… you absolutely perfect human being.

Sherlock’s hands flew across the keyboard. The final showdown with the killer was imminent and John Watson had given Sherlock the perfect push to the solution.

Sherlock could have kissed the man right then and there.


	6. Second Chances and Broken Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand conclusion to the mystery leads to healed hearts and new beginnings for Sherlock and John.

Six weeks after his father’s death, the librarian had come across Sherlock studying intently for a biology course. She had told him what became of Rebecca, but Sherlock deleted it shortly afterward. He had almost deleted sending her the Dysart & Dundee doll, but some part of him wanted to hang on to that bit. Somehow it was an easier thing to store away in the Mind Palace file marked ‘Rebecca’.

He had never actually been to her house before. The closest he had come was sending the doll to Rebecca. He had gotten the address from Mycroft, telling his brother that he was interested in the girl. Mycroft didn’t believe him of course, but he played along and got him Rebecca’s home address.

John and Sherlock peered at the house of Rebecca Sterns. They stood in the deep wood that surrounded the property. It was a rambling old thing set on a parcel of land some two miles from the main road. Rebecca had come from means. But it seemed the place had seen better days. A two-storey affair, the house had a turret, gables and a thatched roof all of which were in a dilapidated state. The grass had grown about the place to jungle-like proportions and the shrubbery and ivy were completely out of control. Had everything been put right, the house would have looked grand, with a far-away fairytale air. As it stood now, it looked as if a wicked sorcerer had placed a curse on the property and doomed its occupants to a life of misery and ruin.

“You aren’t going in there,” said John.

Sherlock looked down at him. He saw the concern in John’s eyes. “Don’t worry,” said Sherlock, “I’m just going to talk to her.”

“She’s obviously insane, Sherlock,” said John, “You don’t talk to insane people. It’s a waste of time. Let Lestrade and his men move forward and capture her.”

“No, John,” said Sherlock, “She wants to have this final showdown with me, then so be it. I haven’t seen the woman since the day after my father died. I have no idea what she wants and I want to know why she’s been playing this game with me. Only she can answer those questions. And she will only be able to answer those questions if she feels that she still has some control over the situation.” Sherlock saw the doubt in John’s eyes. He continued: “If Lestrade’s men burst in and she were in fact psychologically compromised, she could have a psychotic break. After that, at best she’d be a gibbering monkey, at worst: comatose. Either way, it’s a negative outcome for getting at the truth. No. I must go it alone. This is between Rebecca and me.”

John pursed his lips in thought and nodded slowly. “Alright, mate,” he said finally, “If you think it best, then fine. But I’m giving you ten minutes to get your truth and then I’m going in with the whole of Scotland Yard behind me. Understand?”

“I understand, John,” said Sherlock. He turned to regard the house where a madwoman resided. She had killed at least eight people over the past nine years; the first four were killed five years ago, the last four were killed most recently. All had been photographed much the same way an artist would photograph a bowl of fruit: with an aesthetic eye. She had had her mind twisted in some fashion and this caused her to become unnaturally fixated on Sherlock Holmes.

The thought made Sherlock almost shiver. Why would someone commit a series of brutal murders and then mail the photographic evidence to the only consulting detective in the world? Clearly, she wanted attention. Rebecca Sterns was about to get what she’d been asking for.

But first…

Sherlock turned back to John, took his face in his hands, and kissed him gently. Sherlock reveled in John’s warmth. John didn’t resist or pull away. He wanted that kiss just as badly as Sherlock did. The kiss was chaste, but it had a heat to it like glowing coals in a fire. When they broke apart, Sherlock touched his forehead to John and stared into the man’s eyes.

“I know you miss Mary,” Sherlock said softly. John’s mouth opened a bit in surprise. Sherlock stroked his face gently with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry for what I put you through, but I’m even more sorry for what you’ve gone through since Mary passed away. I know we need to talk about this more. Now is not the time. Only know that I’ve come to realize that your grief ran deeper than I previously thought. And for that I am most profoundly sorry.” John’s eyes began to well up with tears.

“I love you, John Watson,” said Sherlock. He placed another brief chaste kiss to the doctor’s lips and moved away toward the house. “When we get home tonight, I’m going to show you how much.”

Sherlock turned and disappeared into the house.

 

~080~

 

It was as he feared. The entire house was dark. Dust was everywhere and the pieces of furniture were covered in drop cloths. Sherlock thought Rebecca had become so insular that she only lived in a certain portion of the house, which was most likely correct as there was only a narrow pathway to follow from the main entrance. The place was a maze of collected detritus: bottles, cans, cups, newspapers, trinkets, baubles, and plastic tubs filled with who-knows-what were scattered about the once spacious ground floor rooms. Sherlock couldn’t even see to the back walls for all the objects in the way. There was a strong stench of cat urine and decomposition. It was repellant. 

He mounted the stairs carefully, doing his best not to shift the junk on each step and cause an avalanche that would block his retreat. The smell got better on the second floor landing. That was something. It seemed as if she actually inhabited this floor. The pathways were wider. You could see the carpet. Sherlock checked every room with his torch in hand. He found a few bedrooms, a bath, and what appeared to be a makeshift kitchen, but no Rebecca.

The only places left to search were the cellar and the attic space. The attic was closer. He searched for the door and found a hatch in one of the bedroom closets. Carefully, he climbed the retracting stairs to the pitch black space above.

She had decorated for his arrival. Dolls were everywhere. All of them from the Dysart & Dundee Doll Company. The place was overrun. Glass eyes glinted in the torchlight as he moved the beam about.

“There you are,” she said.

Sherlock jumped a bit at the sound of her voice. It was like a distant echo from a dream, drowsy and whispered. He turned and located her in a rocking chair holding a doll. She wasn’t looking at him. She was adjusting the doll in her arms. It was wrapped in a blue blanket that was too big for it.

“Rebecca,” said Sherlock.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come and find me, Sherlock,” she said to the doll. “You were always so clever. I thought you’d be here before now, but I see I had to get your attention.” She raised her head and he saw her face for the first time in a decade. Her hair had gone grey and there were worry lines about her eyes and forehead. She seemed so… old.

She continued to rock the doll and stare at him. Her eyes made Sherlock squirm. They were dead... and yet there was a glint to them that smacked of something sinister, something totally evil. She had the eyes of a woman possessed.

“You killed all those people to get my attention?” he asked. “Well… you have it now. What do you want with me?”

“What do I want with him?” she asked the doll. The doll made no reply, so she answered for it: “I want you to know what you have done to me.”

“What have I done?” he asked.

“The worst thing any man can do to a woman,” she said. “You let me fall in love with you.”

“Is that really so bad?” he said. “And besides, I didn’t make you fall in love, much less let you. If anything, I pushed you away constantly. You were a good researcher. Useful. But other than that, I never really needed you for more.”

Her eyes widened at this and Sherlock knew he had said something wrong. 

“You needed me when your father died. I gave you that. I gave you my virginity,” she said, her voice still eerily calm and quiet.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, “That. Yes… well. Thank you, I suppose.”

She let out a low, slow chuckle that sprung gooseflesh all along Sherlock’s arms and the back of his neck. “Thank you, I suppose,” she echoed. She turned back to the doll. “Do you ever wonder why I didn’t return to Uni after that?” Sherlock remained silent and waited for her to tell him. This is what she really wanted to say, after all. She looked at him again, her eyes still cold and so completely still. She said, “I came here. And I had your baby.”

Sherlock didn’t speak. He froze.

“Tell me that you deduced as much, Sherlock,” she said. “Tell me that you aren’t that ignorant.”

“I…,” said Sherlock, “I had no idea, Rebecca. I’m so sorry.” 

“You took my innocence for your own personal gain and left me to fend for myself,” she said. “I did the best I could, but my mother never approved of me.” She looked to the doll again as she said: “You were right about me. I was bred as an old age companion for her. I was always the one meant to care for her to the end. But then she found that I would have someone other than her to take care of. And the father of the… bastard… was nowhere to be found.” She looked at Sherlock again and said: “The only contact I had from you was the doll you sent me. See,” and here she held up the doll in her arms, “I still have him. But I never had you. You weren’t there to see the hate in her eyes as I got bigger and bigger. You weren’t there to hear her words. She was utterly hateful to me. She called me ungrateful. A whore. She said for me to give our baby away once it was born, or she would bash its head in.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide at this. Obviously the psychotic personality doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Seeing his expression, she quickly added: “Oh, that was just mother saying things. She didn’t really mean it. Most likely, she would just have complained about its crying all the time. But we never got that far.” Rebecca turned to the doll and said, “Did we, sweetheart?”

“What do you mean?” said Sherlock.

“I gave birth to a boy. His name was... I can’t remember now. But mother said I mustn’t keep him. So I took care of it.” Rebecca rocked in the chair a little faster. “I didn’t want to. But mother insisted that I choose between her or my baby on the understanding that if I chose the baby that I wouldn’t be welcome in the house anymore. So… you see…there was no choice.”

She looked into Sherlock’s eyes with something close to regret. “I had no choice, Sherlock,” she said.

“I understand,” he said. “You did what was right for… our son.”

“I did what I had to do,” she said. “I couldn’t leave mother. And I couldn’t let our son go. But you understand.” Rebecca smiled the most sickening smile Sherlock had ever seen on a human countenance. “I’m so glad that you understand.”

“Rebecca,” said Sherlock slowly, alarm rising within him at a revolting speed, “What exactly happened to him?”

“Hmm?” she asked.

“Rebecca, focus,” he said, “What happened to the baby, to our son?”

“I put him to sleep,” she said softly to the doll in her arms.

Sherlock hated to ask the next question: “How?”

“With a pillow,” she said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

“Rebecca…” said Sherlock. “Why did you… do that…to our son? If you gave him up for adoption, he would have gone to a good home. And if you’d have told me about his existence, I’m sure my family would have helped you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t allowed to leave, Sherlock,” she said. Suddenly, Rebecca looked very tired. Her eyes reached Sherlock and she let one tear fall down her face. “I wasn’t allowed to call. Mother wouldn’t let me talk to you anymore.”

“What did she think I would do? Impregnate you twice?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sherlock regretted them. Rebecca visibly shrank back, curling around the doll in her arms. “Rebecca… I’m sorry.”

“Then you were gone,” she said. “I risked a phone call once. But you were gone from Uni and no one knew where you were. I couldn’t… I didn’t… You…” Rebecca was shivering and rocking even faster than before. “Mother punished me severely for that.”

Sherlock didn’t want Rebecca to elaborate on that last statement. Her mother was as obviously psychotic and controlling as her daughter turned out to be. Instead, he walked carefully to her, reached a hand out and stopped the chair by grabbing one arm. Rebecca pulled out a gun from beneath the blanket, and pointed it directly at Sherlock.

“Get back,” she said nervously. Sherlock quickly retreated a few steps, hands raised. Stupid. Stupid. He should have seen that coming. Once he was at a comfortable distance from her, Rebecca’s entire demeanor changed.

“Now that you’re here,” she said calmly and as if she were the most lucid and sane person in the world, “we can join our son. Doesn’t that sound good? I have plenty of bullets. We can go see him now.”

Sherlock felt suddenly sick as she said: “Oh, Sherlock, you should have seen him when he was born. So tiny! And so much black curly hair. He was utterly perfect. But you can see him again. It’ll be just as it should have been: you the father and I the mother. And we’ll teach him all about scientific theory and chemistry and things. He’ll be so clever. Just like his father. So very clever. And we’ll be together always. And it’ll be perfect.”

Sherlock was adding up the time in his head. Ten minutes went by approximately ten minutes ago. John should have already been here. Damn.

He backed further away from her, his hands raised. “You don’t want to do this, Rebecca,” he said, “You really need to think about what you’re doing.”

“I have thought about it, Sherlock,” she countered, “for a long, long time now.”

A thought sprang into Sherlock’s head. “What happened five years ago?”

Rebecca looked confused. “What?” she asked.

“Five years ago,” said Sherlock, “something happened. What was it? Your mother was already dead. You only had you to take care of. What happened that caused you to kill those people?”

“Oh…,” said Rebecca, “Those people… Oh, I killed them for practice.”

“Practice?” he said.

“I was quite angry at you for a long time. I wanted you dead. Can you believe it?” she said, laughing. “I was so very wicked. My thoughts were wicked. I’m ashamed to say that I wanted to see if it were possible to kill you and get away with it.”

“So you killed those innocent people… My God… And then you killed more,” he said.

“So I suppose that there’s police outside,” she said idly, not batting an eye at the non sequitur.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “Plenty of them. They can help you, you know. They can—“

“No, Sherlock,” she said and held the gun out at arm’s length. “They can’t help me. All I want is for you to see your son. He was so very beautiful, Sherlock. So perfect.” She cocked the gun with a loud click. “Goodbye, my darling. I’ll see you soon.”

A gun went off.

Rebecca’s head snapped back violently, the bullet from John’s Browning passing through her skull, killing her instantly. The doll fell to the floor.

 

~080~

 

“Here,” said John handing Sherlock a cup of tea as he sat on the sofa of 221B.

“Thank you, John,” said Sherlock. He took a tentative sip, the warm liquid soothing his jangled nerves. Sherlock had had some unnerving encounters with all sorts of criminals, but this experience had been well beyond his limits. He was visibly shaken.

A rough hand was gently massaging his neck and Sherlock leaned back into the touch. He let out a moan of pleasure and John kissed Sherlock softly on the cheek. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. The good doctor looked justifiably concerned about him.

When John had shot the deranged woman, Sherlock could have sworn that it was her gun that had gone off. That was enough to shake even the most steady of fellows. But John was not used to seeing Sherlock shaken and Sherlock was not used to being shaken. The comfort of 221B, a cup of tea, and a neck massage were definitely the thing to solve the problem.

“The only link I don’t understand is the slaughterhouse,” said John.

“Borden was a family name,” said Sherlock. “It was the late Mrs. Sterns’ maiden name. Her family’s fortune was made at that slaughterhouse.”

“I see,” said John, shaking his head, “Brilliant.”

“Not really,” said Sherlock, “Google.”

“Oh,” said John, nonplussed.

“Incidentally, the famous murderess Lizzie Borden was a distant relative,” said Sherlock.

“Explains a few things,” said John.

“Hmm…” agreed Sherlock and leaned further into John’s touch.

So…,” said John. “You love me.”

“I do, John Watson,” said Sherlock.

Looking at him in profile with his eyes closed and his head leaned back, it was all John could do not to kiss, nibble, and suck on that adam’s apple. Later… some things were more important.

“And you say that I’m still not over Mary’s death,” said John slowly. The subject of Mary had never actually been brought up between them in any formal way since Sherlock’s return. He knew of her. He knew of John’s marriage to her. He knew she died. Sherlock didn’t ask for details. John always figured that he didn’t really care.

“I do think you’re still grieving, yes,” said Sherlock, “Believe it or not, John, I know what grief can do to a person.”

“Do you now?” said John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “You loved her. A part of you will always love her. She was your wife. It’s a facet of your life that will always exist in your heart.” Sherlock picked up his head and looked directly into John’s deep blue eyes. “You will never lose that time with her, you know. No matter how long you and I remain… together. Your time with her is immortal.”

John had never heard such tender eloquence from Sherlock. He was fairly certain that if the man ever had to have open heart surgery that they wouldn’t hire a surgeon, they’d hire a mechanic. But here he sat, staring into the verdigris eyes of a man who was talking of the woman that he loved with all his heart as if he knew John’s innermost feelings. It was disturbingly touching. John felt a lump forming in his throat.

“That’s kind of you to say, Sherlock,” said John in a whisper. If John had attempted to speak any louder, he knew his voice would have broken.

“Not at all,” said Sherlock, “It’s simply telling the truth. She was your wife. She died. You are allowed to mourn her passing, John. Only tell me… how can I help you?”

“You already did,” said John. “I think.”

Sherlock raised an inquisitive brow.

“When I… shot…,” said John. “When I saved you, just then…”

“That helped?” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John, “I think it did.” Sherlock was silent at this, so John took a breath and went on: “When you… died, I felt like I was the worst friend in the world. I not only left you to see about Mrs. Hudson, I let you jump off that roof. I should have been able to stop you. I couldn’t. I should have been on that roof with you when you confronted Moriarty and I wasn’t. I know now that it was all a clever game, but… damn it. At the time… I just felt like I let you down in the worst way.”

Sherlock wanted to speak, but no words would come.

“Then Mary came along and everything was fine for a time. Oh Sherlock,” John said, “you would have really liked her. She was strong and kind. Just… just my favorite person.” John’s eyes welled up with tears. “And then she was gone. And I didn’t see it… I just didn’t see it, Sherlock. And there was another person I c-couldn’t s-save….” John wept.

Sherlock reached over and pulled John to his chest, cradling his head and rubbing his back soothingly. He offered no words of comfort because he knew that none would do. He wanted John to cry, so he didn’t hush him. He just rocked him gently and waited.

John was grateful for the silence and wept his heart out. He clung to Sherlock as if he were a rock. Sherlock’s arms felt wonderful around him. John had never felt so safe or so loved… not since Mary. His heart filled to overflowing and he cried even harder than before. He cried for himself and for Mary. He cried in grief and in gratitude.

It was some time before John had his breathing under control. Sherlock waited patiently for the stuttered breath to stop, alternating stroking John’s back and the back of his head, his fingers carding through John’s short hair. Sherlock would occasionally press a kiss to the top of John’s head, resting his cheek in his hair and inhaling his scent. John was so warm and comfortable. He was the personification of a cup of warm tea. John was… home.

Eventually John lifted his head. He stared into Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, flicking a glance to that perfect cupid’s bow and back again. Sherlock leaned in and kissed John in the most tender way he knew. Slowly, John opened his mouth and licked Sherlock’s lips with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock’s lips parted and John drank him in deeply as a man would were he half mad from thirst.

It was the slow, languid brush of John’s tongue on his that evoked the first deep moan from Sherlock. The velvet-smooth surface of that wonderful body part tasted of tea and pure John. Sherlock thought that he could possibly exist just on that alone for the remainder of his days on earth. Their arms wound around each other and held tightly, fingers massaging firmly into flesh through their clothing. Time stood still.

John had never allowed himself to love anyone after Mary died. It seemed that his heart wouldn’t allow it. But in this moment, he never felt so loved and his heart had no choice but to open, spilling its contents all over his soul. John wanted this more than he could say. And thankfully, this time it wasn’t about feeling something ELSE… it was about feeling. Full stop.

John wanted this man. He wanted Sherlock to take his time; to love John and let him be loved by John. This was the right way. This was the way it should have been from the beginning.

John felt his heart finally welcome Sherlock Holmes home again. It flooded with relief that this man was back in his life.

Little by little, he felt his immediate sense of listlessness go. He started to live in color again. And everything was wonderful.

The kiss broke and they panted into each other’s mouths, each man’s erection screaming at him to DO SOMETHING.

John caressed Sherlock’s neck as he kissed him softly once more, moving his mouth to the detective’s jawline and trailing small kisses to the tender spot behind his ear. Sherlock let out a low moan and John’s cock twitched with want. John spent a little time there, licking and sucking that small patch of skin, inhaling his scent, enjoying his taste.

Sherlock snaked his hand down John’s chest and heard his breath hitch when he brushed past a nipple. He moved slowly, deliberately over that sensitive area, still trying to gauge whether or not John would stop him. He didn’t want to stop, but he wasn’t about to force John to do something that he didn’t want to do. Sherlock promised himself that he would never ever hurt John again.

John gave no objection to Sherlock’s ministrations. If anything, he encouraged the man with the noises he was making. John’s mouth was doing obscene things to Sherlock’s neck now, moving downward toward his collarbone. The tender spot reached, Sherlock gasped and his breath stuttered. John lingered there until Sherlock thought his cock would burst from his trousers. Jesus… I want this man. Oh God, John… please.

“Sherlock,” said John, his voice already operating in a lower register. “We should—“

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “I completely concur, doctor.”

The two men rose and went to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock got out a small bottle of lube and some condoms and placed them on the nightstand. When he turned around, John had already removed his shirt.

Sherlock had never actually seen John’s chest on display before in the soft glow of the light from his bedside table lamp. His scar stood out prominently. Sherlock walked to him and leaned down to examine it before kissing it gently. He felt John’s hands in his hair when he did. John placed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek as the detective licked, kissed, and sucked on his wound. The way Sherlock was treating John’s body was almost reverent. John was undone. He peppered kisses along the side of Sherlock’s head and down that long elegant neck as his hands reached to unbutton Sherlock’s white shirt.

Sherlock helped remove his shirt, stood up to take it completely off and stared at John a moment before taking him in his arms and kissing him again. The feel of their skin together felt so scandalous yet completely… right.

“Are you sure this is what you want, John?” asked Sherlock as he caught his breath from the kiss and the feel of their bodies so warm against one another.

“Yes, Sherlock,” said John. “I want this more than I have words to tell you.”

“Right,” said Sherlock and he kissed John softly. “I just want to let you know that you don’t have to tell me that you love me back. I understand that you need time.”

John couldn’t believe his ears. He pulled back a bit from Sherlock. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate?”

“Very droll, John,” Sherlock said with mock distain and he smirked at him.

John couldn’t resist. He leaned up and captured those lips, sucking on the bottom lip and worrying it with his teeth and tongue until Sherlock let out a moan of pleasure. His hands moved over Sherlock’s chest, reveling in the feel of all that creamy skin. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, running his hands along all the dips and curves of his smooth back. In response, the detective deepened the kiss and gave out a baritone moan. Sherlock grasped John’s hips and brought their two straining cocks together. The touch caused both men to lose their breath.

“More,” said Sherlock into John’s mouth.

“Oh God, yes,” said John.

John moved Sherlock back against his bed and reached for his belt buckle and trousers. Loosening the material, John began to salivate when he saw Sherlock’s arousal pushing against his pants, the tip already peeking above the waistband and leaking. John couldn’t stop himself: he bent over and licked the tip of Sherlock’s hard cock with the tip of his tongue, tasting his precum.

“Ah! John!” cried Sherlock, carding his fingers gently through John’s hair. The bitter and salty taste coupled with the sound of Sherlock calling his name, pushed John to the edge. He looked up at a heavy-lidded, debauched Sherlock and damn near lost his mind. That tore it. John took down Sherlock’s pants and licked a stripe up the backside of Sherlock’s cock.

“Fuck!” said Sherlock. “Oh please, John… please…I need you…” His begging caused John to moan with want. He softly kissed Sherlock’s tip and sucked the head into his mouth, working his tongue over the frenulum. All he could do was what he knew he liked and then pay attention to what Sherlock responded to. It was a process that worked for both of them.

John alternated sucking Sherlock’s cock with pulling off and stroking him so that he could enjoy the view of Sherlock coming undone. He was too perfect. John had never felt so passionate and in control all at the same time. He was doing this to Sherlock. He was causing that man to lose his mind. John and John alone was responsible for the gooseflesh and the shivers and the slow undulation of Sherlock’s hips as he sucked and licked and stroked at his hardness. It was fucking perfection.

Sherlock’s mind had turned off. All he knew was what was happening to his body. Usually it was all just transport, but the freedom created by his brain switching off was absolutely delicious. Sparks shot down his legs, causing his knees to want to give out. He was so close to coming… so fucking close… oh dear God…

“John…. I- I have to… I need to… please…,” said Sherlock.

John released Sherlock with a wet pop and stood up. He gripped the base of Sherlock’s cock gently but firmly in order to stave off his orgasm and kissed him. Sherlock tasted the mix of John and his own precum in that kiss. Fuck… this is… too much…. Not enough.

Sherlock undid John’s trousers and fell to his knees. He had to return the favor. John had some girth to him, but Sherlock was undaunted. He took in John’s dripping cock in one smooth motion, going down as far as his gag reflex would allow. The taste was incomparable and Sherlock hummed his pleasure in a deep baritone.

John gasped at the sudden rush of warmth and wetness. And when Sherlock began to hum… Holy Mary, mother of God. Sherlock came back off of John slowly, the suction causing his cheeks to hollow. Crystalline verdigris eyes met cobalt blue and both men felt a surge of heat at the sight of the other. John buried his hands in Sherlock’s hair, not pressing, just feeling the soft curls ripple past his fingers with Sherlock’s bobbing. Too fucking perfect.

Sherlock’s talented tongue teased his frenulum and head, licking across the slit and gliding back down his length, caressing the underside of his shaft. The wet sucking sounds Sherlock’s perfect mouth was making along his cock were truly obscene. The sensation of it all made John light-headed. Holy fuck… Sherlock Holmes was sucking his cock. It was fucking surreal.

John wanted to cum all over Sherlock’s body. He wanted Sherlock to lick him clean. He wanted to watch Sherlock’s face become more and more wanton with every pump from his prick. This was filth and passion, lust and lasciviousness at its best. But John wanted something more.

John Watson wanted to fuck Sherlock Holmes through the mattress.

John wanted to hear Sherlock call out his name, writhe under him, see his hands fisting the sheets, feel him jerking his hips to allow John’s thick prick to drive deeper and deeper inside him until John exploded.

Oh…. Fuck. That was it exactly. That’s just what he wanted.

“I want to claim you, Sherlock Holmes,” said John. “ I want to mark you as my own. Show the world you belong to me. How does that sound?” 

Sherlock hummed his approval around John’s cock and he nearly came from the sensation. John reached down gently and pulled Sherlock’s mouth off of him. The loss of sensation was aggravating, but only temporary. He pulled Sherlock to his feet and covered his mouth with his own, tasting Sherlock and himself in the detective’s mouth. So fucking good… so fucking right.

“Mark me,” said Sherlock as his teeth captured John’s bottom lip, “Mark me, John, and let me mark you. We belong to each other now.”

“Oh God, yes,” said John wantonly. He leaned forward, tilting his head and sucked on that tantalizing freckle that stood out on the detective’s neck; the same freckle that seemed to taunt him constantly and damn near drive him to distraction. It felt so good to finally do something about that. Christ…

John bit into the flesh a bit, enough to bruise. He licked the wound and observed his handiwork. Oh yes, that’ll bruise up nicely. Very good.

Sherlock, seeing John’s look of satisfaction, turned him around and bit into the base of his neck where the spine bumped out just a bit. It was below the collar line, so John wouldn’t be embarrassed, and it was in an inconvenient spot for John to notice it, but it was perfect for Sherlock. John stifled a cry as Sherlock sucked and bit his mark into his flesh. John pressed himself backward into Sherlock and felt the detective’s hardness against him. Jesus…. This was amazing. So fucking amazing…

Sherlock licked at the mark soothingly and ran his huge hands down John’s body. “I want to study every inch of you, John Watson,” he said.

“Not yet, love,” said John, turning back around to face Sherlock. “Right now, I’m going to shag you senseless. You’re mine. All mine. And you’re never going anywhere again. Are you?”

Sherlock gazed very seriously at John for a moment before saying: “No, John. I’m never going anywhere again. I’m here. With you, my great friend. Until the end of my days.”

John was so moved all he could do was kiss him. Sweet and soft, the kiss sealed a promise between them to never be parted. It healed both their hearts.

John guided Sherlock down on the bed and spread his legs. Coating a hand in lube, he prepared Sherlock’s hole with one finger, swirling it about the entrance for a bit before slowly plunging it inside. Sherlock was so warm inside. John couldn’t wait to release himself in there.

John trailed kisses all along Sherlock’s alabaster skin as he opened him up, focusing on his nipples and causing ripples of pleasure to radiate outward. Sherlock arched his back with the sensation. Jesus fuck… 

“Look at you,” John whispered in awe. “So fucking gorgeous.” John put a second finger inside Sherlock and waited for him to adjust before slowly pulling it out and then in again this time hitting his prostate with almost every stroke. John watched his best friend writhe and it was a better, more beautiful sight than he had imagined. Sherlock was sex personified.

Not losing a stroke, John dipped his head again and kissed right down Sherlock’s abdomen, taking a moment to lick into his navel, teasing the man to his limit. Sherlock had a very sensitive bellybutton, apparently. John grinned at this discovery. He placed a third finger inside him.

“Oh God, John,” moaned Sherlock, “Will you please just fuck me already? God damn it. Please…. I need you, John… inside me… now… please… need you to fill me… oh John…”

That was almost more than the doctor could take. He rolled on a condom, slicked up himself with lube and aligned himself with Sherlock’s entrance. Before he pushed in – and he was aching to push – he locked eyes with Sherlock.

They didn’t say anything to one another in that moment, but volumes of unspoken dialogue were exchanged. It was the same look they gave each other at the pool when Sherlock was going to shoot the Symtex vest and blow them to hell. It was the same look Sherlock gave him dozens of times afterward when they were about to burst in on a criminal and John had his gun at the ready. It was the same look they gave each other before Sherlock went in to confront Rebecca earlier that day. That seemed like so long ago now. They had lived a lifetime between then and now. And here they both were, that meaningful wordless look playing on their features yet again. It always looked the same and had the same meaning: ‘I will trust you until the end of the world. I would die for you. I love you.’

John pressed himself into Sherlock’s heat slowly, allowing Sherlock to adjust to his girth.

“Fuck,” said Sherlock. The pressure was enormous but completely wonderful. John pressed a little further and stopped again. John was fairly aching just to pound into him over and over, but he knew it took time. He never wanted to hurt Sherlock. Besides, it may have been agonizing, but it was a wonderful agony. John just hung on and memorized every twitch of Sherlock’s muscles as he slowly, methodically pushed his cock into Sherlock’s arsehole.

A thin sheen of sweat covered both of them by the time John was balls-deep inside Sherlock. John leaned on Sherlock’s torso, hooking the detective’s legs over his shoulders and trapping his throbbing, leaking prick between them. They locked eyes again and never looked away as John started to undulate his hips, causing both of their breath to hitch and catch.

Slow at first, John’s stroke evened out into a rhythmic thrust that they both enjoyed. It was a slow, hot fuck and both men wanted it badly. Their hands ran all over each other: Sherlock’s traced fire along John’s arms, neck, and hair; John stroked Sherlock’s thighs and teased his cock. John placed small kisses wherever he could reach, including the inside of Sherlock’s thighs near the knees that were to either side of his head. Sherlock was driven half mad with that and he kept pulling John’s face to his own to kiss him sloppily but soundly, not wanting to break the rhythm of their coitus.

Eventually both men needed that ultimate scratch to be itched and John flipped Sherlock onto all fours and fucked him with abandon, hitting his prostate deliciously, slapping their skin together creating a thoroughly disgusting and erotic wet sound, and reaching around to Sherlock’s arousal, stroking it with the same fervor as his thrusts.

Past the point of using actual words, both men groaned their pleasure and when the mounting tension broke, they practically screamed each other’s names:

“Oh… God… John!” cried Sherlock as he came, “Fuck! John! Oh God… John John John! AH!”

“Sherlock… damn it… God damn it… Sherlock,” cried John as he exploded inside his beautiful detective, “You’re mine… Mine… All mine… Sherlock! Fuck! Sherlock! Ah! Ah! Ah! Sherlock!”

 

~080~

 

“You just missed Lestrade,” said John the next morning as he poured tea for Sherlock and himself.

“Oh?” said Sherlock. He sat at the table in John’s new bathrobe and scrubbed a towel to the back of his wet head. “What did he want?”

“Follow up on the Rebecca Sterns case,” said John.

“And?” said Sherlock around a bite of toast.

“I’m glad you’re sitting down,” said John.

Sherlock stopped chewing. “What?”

John pursed his lips and spoke carefully. “Apparently after we left the crime scene, Lestrade and his team did some digging overnight.”

“Yes?” said Sherlock warily. “What is it, John?”

“Well…,” said John, “I know I’ve given thought to the idea over the years, but I wasn’t sure if you had…” Sherlock gave John a hard glare. His patience was wearing thin. John sighed and continued: “How did you feel when Rebecca told you that you were a father?”

Sherlock thought carefully before he spoke. “It’s irrelevant how I felt. The child is dead. Wait… Why are you asking me that?”

“Turns out the mother had more on the ball than the daughter,” said John. Sherlock gave John a puzzled look. “Jesus, Sherlock,” said John in frustration, “He’s alive.”

John had never seen a blank look on Sherlock’s face before. It was somewhat frightening. He spoke again slowly: “Your son is alive and well, Sherlock. Lestrade is contacting the child’s foster parents today to see if the boy wants to communicate with you.”

“But Rebecca had smothered the child,” said Sherlock, “She told me that herself.”

“Yes, well…,” said John, “Firstly, she was rather mad when she told you that. And second, her mother was very pushy and controlling. And third, a simple paternity test will prove things well enough.”

John gave Sherlock a minute to absorb this information. So,” said John as he sipped his tea, “How does it feel to be a parent?”

“But I’m not one,” said Sherlock. “I may have fathered a child, but I’m no one’s parent.”

“True,” said John, “But here’s your chance.”

“And if I refuse?” said Sherlock as he raised a defiant eyebrow.

“Then the child stays in the foster system and will age out in time,” said John, “Pity though. Your son would probably be quite intelligent. Perhaps he’s just like you. Shame to never know, isn’t it?” John handed Sherlock a photograph of a boy about ten. His eyes were an open crystalline blue, his hair pitch dark. His face wasn’t as angular, Rebecca’s contribution, obviously, but despite that small discrepancy, he looked as Sherlock did in his youth.

Sherlock chewed his toast thoughtfully. “I’ll agree to the paternity test,” he said finally. “After that… we’ll see.”

“Do you want to know what his name is?” said John.

“Go on,” said Sherlock.

“Hamish,” said John, barely suppressing a smile. “Apparently it was Rebecca’s father’s name.” Sherlock stared at the photograph for some minutes, utterly fascinated.

“What are you thinking, Sherlock?” asked John.

“I’m wondering,” Sherlock said, “how Hamish feels about pirates.”


End file.
